Hollywood is forever re-visiting history. Next month, a movie release dwells on that timeless fracas between the genders. Battle of the Sexes stars Emma Stone and Steve Carell as top-rated Billy Jean King and former champ, Bobby Riggs and centers on their battle for tennis and gender supremacy.

Thinking of an old acquaintance, I wondered if that ongoing battle of the sexes ever did fade. At the risk of labeling him a chauvinist, Chubney Grutinmeier does seem to be padlocked into the old school debate.

Despite all the advances made toward equality, Chub still believes in differences between the sexes and asks, “Otherwise why do women hear things men never say? Or why do men never hear things women say?”

Chub thinks it may be the biggest conundrum in the gender battle. “Been never-ending since time begun,” Chub bellows. “All started when Eve uttered those immortal words, ‘Here, Adam, Sweetie, have a bite of this Golden Delicious!’ or something to that affect.”

Poor Chub! He can’t seem to understand how a man can see a woman in a drop-dead gorgeous dress and say she looks better than she did wearing a different one at the same party a year ago; a party he can no longer remember, let alone recall her outfit.

Of course if a woman baits her own fishhook, hunts, rides a Harley, and has ongoing encyclopedic knowledge of every baseball, football, basketball or hockey game played, they’re expected to immediately bond. Even if a guy is unable to recall her birthday, favorite foods or what she wore 37 years ago when they first met.

“And why do they expect us to like the daintiest wallpaper, the most delicate parlor chairs regardless of comfort, the most perplexing dinnerware patterns ever produced by the most expensive silversmiths in America, or get so flabbergasted whenever we wear briefs for more than a day,” he questions.

“Who knows?” I finally chimed in when he paused long enough to take a breath. I only wanted to let him know I hadn’t dozed off. “Perhaps it’s why mothers insist we wear clean underwear; just in case of accidents.”

Chub agreed and added, “Yeah, you may be right. I recall an ambulance conversation after a car wreck. ‘Check his underwear, Clyde,’ the head paramedic said to the trainee. ‘Oops, this one stays. Take that one instead!’”

Chub took a breath, calmed down and sipped his sarsaparilla. Immediately, I took advantage of another surprising break. “The only difference I’ve seen, is that women can’t understand why men prefer stuffed animal heads and mounted fish on walls of log cabin vacation homes with outdoor facilities.”

But that only got Chub started again. “Yeah,” he muttered, “’at reminds me of a gal who once accused me of renting a mountain home she claimed was three time zones away from the nearest bus stop.” Then he added, “And why do they get so befuddled if we take out a second mortgage for an 87 inch curved HDTV to watch the big game; one that covers only half the wall?”

By now he was on a roll. “Before ever tying the knot, they think we need to know their clothing and shoe sizes, favorite perfumes, or whether their pink hair, favorite shade of chartreuse nail polish or blue lipstick looks natural enough. On the other hand,” he added, “they’re always focusing on our manners or whether we’re well groomed. Why?”

Chub then excused himself, saying he didn’t want to be late or else the little woman would have conniption fits. We’re going out for dinner tonight,” he explained, “and she wants my opinion on what to wear.”

Before he left, though, he did ask one last question, “By the way, how do I look?”